


Blood Cells Pixelate

by alexenglish



Series: You're My Future [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Future Fic, Happy Ending, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post Season Four
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 16:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3453851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/alexenglish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Marry me,” Derek says. Stiles’ mouth drops open.</p><p>“Do not —”</p><p>“Stiles, I’m serious.”</p><p>“What the hell are you doing? Did you have a brain tumor for breakfast?”</p><p>“Stiles —”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Cells Pixelate

**Author's Note:**

> Sterek + "Did you have a brain tumor for breakfast?”
> 
> I'm apparently really into them having inappropriate conversations about their future in dire situations.
> 
> Set in the same universe as [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3419456) and [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3419375)

“I can’t believe your building has an elevator that you didn’t know about,” Stiles says, leaning his head back against the wall. The ground underneath him is slick with his blood, head woozy with the loss of it. They’re stuck at the bottom of the shaft of said elevator. They’re lucky no one ever uses it or they would have been squashed by now. 

Stiles is having a hard time remembering how they got down the shaft. The unwanted pack in Beacon Hills was one of the reasons. Their fair dealings with Satomi clouded their judgement when it came to the Aguillon pack. It might be ironic that they were angry about Scott’s alliance with the Argents, considering Allison is dead, but Stiles doesn’t really know. Irony escapes him, which is probably ironic in and of itself. 

Of course, the Aguillon pack choose to divide and conquer. That’s what a good pack does. Not _good_ -good pack, but strategically good pack. Good in the way that they get things done. Like, gutting Stiles, for example. That definitely happened. Gutting Derek also happened, at the expense of Derek’s ego. Stiles isn’t sure how the Aguillon pack knew about the elevator in Derek’s building. He’s pretty pissed that he had no idea it was here.

“I knew about it,” Derek says, gruffly, “I just don’t use it.” Stiles’ head lolls to the side. Derek isn’t in too bad shape. Sure, he’s clawed to hell, but he’ll heal, Stiles thinks. He’s pretty sure. They’re opposite each other, slumped against the walls. Stiles taps their feet together in a lazy way that has nothing to do with actual laziness. More like, he can’t really feel his feet.

“How are you holdin’ up, big guy?” Stiles asks, trying to distract himself from the needling pull of the gash in his side. If Firefly taught him anything, it’s that stomach wounds are the easiest to die from. He’s trying not to think about it, which means he’s definitely thinking about it. “Healing yet?”

“It’s taking too long,” Derek says, hand peeling away from his own stomach sticky and red. The claw wounds are front and center and probably producing new cells as they speak. “I need to get out of here.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” Stiles says, with sluggish smile. The lethargy is the blood loss. Stiles’ toes are going numb. “You need to distract me, I’m thinking about how I’m about to die too much.” 

The look on Derek’s face is carefully composed except for the hardness in the line of his jaw, anxiety clenching the muscle tight there. Inside, he’s probably losing his shit, but his chest rises and falls with carefully measured breaths. The rhythm is keeping Stiles from panicking, which is probably Derek’s goal. 

“Do you want kids?” Derek asks. Stiles’ heart stutters in his chest, completely unrelated to his mortal wounds. 

“Do I -- Want -- What?”

“Kids? Children? Fruit of your loins?”

“Fruit of my --” Stiles is about to make fun of him, but something about the look on Derek’s face is so sincere. He actually wants to know the answer to this question and it’s not just a way to keep Stiles’ mind occupied. “Yeah, I want kids.”

“How many?” he asks next. Stiles stares at him, trying to read the look on his face. He looks curious and impossibly sad at the same time. Usually that expression means that he’s thinking about his family. Stiles has to look away, throat tight.

“I ‘unno. Sometimes I want like four of the little rugrats. I always wanted a big family, you know? People, lots of people. Then, other times, I think I can probably only deal with one.” Stiles clears his throat. It keeps getting sticky, stopping the flow of his words. It takes another moment to get enough courage to meet Derek’s eyes. “I have a lot of energy, though, you know? I could handle a bunch. You?”

“I had a big family,” Derek says, even though it’s not necessary. Stiles knows. “I like big families.” Stiles nods slowly, mind starting to fuzz out at the edges. That’s good to know. Good to know. Stiles gets a vision Derek, older, catching a dark haired boy around his torso and swinging him. Happy, carefree, one of the things Derek doesn’t really get in this life. It’s a harsh contrast to Derek, covered in blood, for what feels like the thousandth time.

“I kind of have a big family now,” he says, not sure where his brain is taking him. He just thinks about Scott and seeing Derek in the woods. He thinks about Allison, her dimples when she smiled. He thinks about the first betas, all in leather jackets like a gang, the months he spent helping Derek look for Erica and Boyd. He thinks about pulling Malia out of the shift, helping Liam learn control, Kira’s fox fire. “The pack. All of the packs, every person in the packs.” 

Multiple packs. The Hale pack, the McCall pack, both at once -- HaCall? McHale? Pack. Derek looks sad again.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, shutting his eyes against the onslaught of Erica, Boyd, Allison that takes over his senses suddenly. The guilt and the pain taste like ash in his mouth, burn his lungs. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Derek says, but Stiles can hear it crackle at the edges. Derek clears his throat. “What are your favorite names?” Stiles can’t help the laugh that escapes him. It’s too harsh, but the corners of Derek’s mouth curl up in a half-assed smile. 

“I don’t know? I’ve never thought about that,” he says, truthfully. “I think my dad would like it if I named one after my mom, but I really don’t like the name Claudia.” It makes him feel guilty to say it out loud, but it’s true. Derek laughs at him for that, quiet and understanding. 

“Yeah, I don’t necessarily like any of my family names either,” he says, with a shrug. The movement must pull a wound, his face crumples into a grimace. Stiles’ stomach lurches in sympathy. 

“What names do you like?” Stiles asks. Now he’s curious to know, since Derek started this conversation. They haven’t exactly been avoiding the subject, but they haven’t breached it either. It took Stiles so long to even admit his feelings that he didn’t want to jinx it by going full speed ahead. Apparently, dying changes things. 

“Micah’s my favorite. I haven’t thought of any others,” Derek says. Stiles nods. Micah, he likes that a lot, actually. They stare at each other for a moment longer.

“How’s the healing?” he asks, again. It’s impossible to avoid the subject. Derek rolls his eyes.

“Can you feel your feet?” Derek asks, ignoring him. It’s like he knows Stiles’ toes have been tingling for the last few minutes. It’s slowly getting worse -- which is usually the case with blood loss. Stiles grins at him, maybe a little manically. 

“Are you asking me to dance?”

“Please, don’t quote Firefly when we’re dying,” Derek says, refusing to be amused. 

“That’s why I love you,” Stiles says, exhaling. “I can’t feel my feet.” Stiles can see the tremor in Derek’s hands. It’s the smallest give away of fear, but it’s there. Terror settles hot behind his sternum, sudden and gripping. Stiles might not make it this time. 

“It’ll be okay,” Derek says. It sounds like a lie. 

“Can you hear anything?” Maybe if Derek can hear something: people coming, the sound of fighting -- Derek shakes his head and Stiles’ stomach tangles up even farther. 

“It’s pretty sound proof in here.”

“Goodie for us,” Stiles says, sarcastically. He shifts his weight to see if he can get any of the numbness in his lower body to dissipate. It only manages to send pain shooting through his torso. He can’t help the small noise that escapes his mouth with an exhale of air. Stiles meets Derek eyes with a grimace. “It’s cool, I’m good. The goodest of good.”

“Don’t lie.”

“You know, I’ve built my reputation on brushing things off inappropriately, don’t ruin it for me.” 

Derek laughs at him again, tipping his head back and letting out a sigh. It could be the lighting, but his eyes look wet. They’re dark when they look at Stiles again.

“Marry me,” Derek says. Stiles’ mouth drops open. 

“Do not --”

“Stiles, I’m serious.”

“What the hell are you doing? Did you have a _brain tumor_ for breakfast?”

“Stiles --”

“We’re stuck in an _elevator shaft_ ,” Stiles says, voice too high and too tight. There’s a wetness to his eyes that wasn’t there a few minutes ago. Derek can’t do this to him, not right now. “There’s a good chance I’m _going to die_. Do not ask me to fucking marry you, Derek Hale.”

“And if you do die?” Derek demands, voice sharpening in irritation. “I won’t ever know what your answer is. I won’t _know_.”

“You can’t guilt me into giving you an answer!” Stiles says, sharply. The numbness is creeping up his legs, adrenaline pushing his blood pressure higher. Unfortunately for him, it means his heart is working harder, blood pushing through faster. Derek is staring at him with the most openly hurt and vulnerable look on his face that Stiles has ever seen. Stiles’ stomach bites down on itself in anxiety. 

Derek takes a few measured breaths. They don’t say anything, just stare at each other. 

“I’ve had my future ripped away from me too many times, Stiles,” he says after awhile, eyes meeting Stiles’. “I’m tired of not knowing. I, just, if it does happen, I need to know this time. I need to know what could have been.” 

“Oh,” Stiles says, understanding coming hard and fast. He feels like an asshole. Stiles will never understand what Derek has gone through. His family, Paige -- Derek can never know the possibilities of that kind of life because they were all taken away so early. Stiles swallows past the lump in his throat, ignores the way his eyes are hot. “Of course.”

“Of course?”

“Of course, I’ll marry you,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. There’s no way Derek misses the fat tears that escape his lids as he closes them softly. God, the life they could have. Married, kids. The ache in Stiles’ chest intensifies. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I want to spend my life with you.” 

Even if it’s just the next ten minutes.

“Good,” Derek says, all at once, a smile on his lips. His eyes are totally wet.

“I can’t believe you just proposed to me in an elevator shaft,” Stiles groans. Derek leans forward, testing the extend of the damage to his torso. There’s no way to really see through the blood, but nothing starts bleeding more. Derek must take that as a good sign, he closes the space between them and leans his forehead against Stiles’. Stiles’ presses back, desperate for the touch. 

“I’ll do it again later,” Derek says, gruffly, kissing him. Stiles kisses back with everything he has. It’s not tender, it’s too-hard with a lot of teeth and not enough spit, but it says everything that Stiles is too scared to voice. “I’ll propose a thousand times until it’s perfect.”

“It already was,” Stiles says, exhaling. He feels Derek nod as he presses their foreheads together again. 

“I think I’m able to get out of here,” he says, eyes darting up the shaft to the first floor door. “I’ll come back.”

“Kick their ass babe,” Stiles says, shutting his eyes. “I love you.” 

"Love you too, Stiles." 

Hopefully, there’s no one out there to challenge Derek, hopefully it’s smooth sailing until he finds another pack member. Stiles listens as Derek goes about getting to the door. There are grunts and claws on the stone of the shaft. Relief hits Stiles in the chest when he hears the door drag open, the heavy metal scraping with Derek’s effort. Stiles’ head starts to swim without Derek’s distraction, eyes fluttering as he fights to stay conscious. Derek will find someone, Derek will come back. 

 

 

When his brain finally surfaces from the blackness, he’s aware of the beeping of machines and familiar hospital smell. It sends relief crashing into his chest. The weight along his side means that there’s a pack member there and whoever is clinging to his hand is cutting off his blood circulation, but at least he _has_ blood circulation. 

His eyelashes unstick, slow and heavy. He blinks them open to a dark room, the light above the bed illuminating Scott on the bed next to him and Derek clutching at his hand. Scott is asleep, head tipped back, softly snoring out of his open mouth. Derek is staring at their hands, frown on his face.

“Hey,” Stiles says, words working through his throat. He’s still exhausted and maybe a little high from pain killers. There’s no way he wants to see what his stomach looks like after taking three claws to the gut, that scar is going to be gnarly. At least he’s alive, though. Derek’s hand clenches tighter, relief making his face smooth out. 

“Hey,” he says, soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What do you think about a fall wedding?”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
